


the ol razzle dazzle - nsfw

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M, Mystery Trio, Oral Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: stan tries to razzle dazzle you.it inevitably succeeds.(afab reader, they/them pronouns!)





	1. funny honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consult_the_potato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consult_the_potato/gifts).



You’ve known your best friend for many a moon by now, yet he never fails to surprise you. He found you at your dingy diner job in your hometown of Nowhere Special, USA, and even long after you quit he’d keep coming back to visit you. The day he met you sitting in a booth alone, cheeks tear-streaked and, for lack of a better word, with nowhere else to go, he asked if you had anything holding you to this town— you said no. So he took your hand and led you to his car, and while you were just a little suspicious at first…

You know Stan Pines wouldn’t be that kinda guy.

He took you to yet another nowhere town named Gravity Falls and with some bargaining with his brother (and his squirrely but sweet assistant), they let you stay at their house until you got back on your feet. While the storage room gets a little cold at night and your mattress squeaks like you’re sleeping atop mice, you can’t help but feel welcome— especially with Stan waking you up for breakfast. Domestic, one might call it, especially since you often catch a strange, almost fond expression cross Stan’s face when he comes to get you some mornings and looks upon your messy-haired and bleary-eyed self. But you don’t think too much of it.

It’s just for a few weeks— even if you’re valiantly trying to forget it’s been three months.

Stan opens the storage room door and leans against the frame, arms crossed on his chest. You sit up on your makeshift bed-on-the-floor and your smile only widens as he returns it.

“Hey, ah— Ford was askin’ after ya. Apparently they’re goin after some cave-thing and he wants you to come too. Extra pair of hands or whatever.”

“Some “cave-thing” sounds _very_ interesting,” you laugh, taking Stan’s outstretched hand to pull you up. “I’m in.”

“I’ll let ‘im know you’re coming.”

“You’re coming too, right?”

“Huh?”

You step up to him, tilting your head to one side in question.

“You said “they’re” going. You’re coming, aren’t you? It’d be weird without you there too.”

Stan’s brows raise before he beams at you, immediately going to suppress it behind a nonchalant shrug.

“I mean, I’m not busy,” Stan mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why not.”

You clap your hands together and Stan laughs, cheeks flushed pink as he follows you downstairs to Ford and Fiddleford, who’s lacing very busted-looking hiking boots on.

“Oh! Good to see you’re coming.” Ford smiles warmly and you return it, waving at Fiddleford as he tries not to tangle his shoelaces together. “We’re gonna need as many hands as possible for this one.”

“What are we trying t—“

“Look at these!”

Ford thrusts his journal into your hands and you stare down at the open page.

“ _“Gem Snakes”_?”

Stan rests his arm atop your head— curse him for being so tall— and peers over the page, studying Ford’s sketch of a small snake with lots of illustrated sparkles radiating off of it. You tilt your head up to look at him and roll your eyes, but it’s in good nature.

“My drawings simply cannot do them justice,” Ford babbles excitedly. “One found its way into the house last night—“

“There was a _snake_ in here last night and you forgot to tell _any_ of us?”

“— and I managed to shoo it out, but I followed it, barefoot with just my wits and a flashlight, down to one of the caves near the waterfall. They glow so brightly, it was easy to track it amongst the forest floor.”

“They sound beautiful,” you murmur, reading Ford’s brief blurb about them. You don’t catch how Stan’s gaze shifts from the page to the top of your head, absent-mindedly twirling a strand of your hair around his fingers.

“They’re truly exquisite creatures,” Ford nods, gently taking his journal from your hands and snapping it shut. The noise startles Stan enough to take his arm from your head, and he acts the part of “no I _definitely_ wasn’t messing with your hair” when you look up at him. You nudge him with your elbow and snicker when Ford turns his back to you, re-reading his entry briefly.

“There’s multiple colors; I want to get one of each, take scale samples, and see how each react when exposed to light. Apparently each type of snake reacts differently based on color— lighter shades are more docile in sunlight, darker shades are used to living in shadow; they’re more aggressive.”

Ford claps and rubs his hands together. You grin at him— it’s hard not to when he pulls that “I’m ready for an adventure” face.

“Alright. Fiddleford, you have all the flashlights, correct?”

Fiddleford nods and passes two to you and Stan. Stan turns his on and slaps it twice to make it actually turn on. Yours, thankfully, flicks to life as soon as you click the button.

“We ran outta batteries this mornin’— you've got the last’o the fresh ones,” he explains, nodding to you. “I used Stan’s last night to find my hikin’ boots at home, so they should be fine today, I reckon.”

Ford nods, checking his flashlight and tucking it into his coat’s inner pocket.

“Shall we, then?”

— — — — —

“Why’s it gotta be so dark?”

“Because it’s a _cave_ , Stanley.”

“Were you expecting lava lamps or something?”

Stan cranes his neck to glare at you but when he sees your joking grin, tongue between your teeth, he snickers and turns back to the path in front. The four of you— Ford, Fiddleford, Stan, and you bringing up the rear— found the cave just before noon, turning on all four flashlights before descending into the incredibly black abyss. With Stan in front you have someone to follow, at least, and he turns to help you down steeper ledges with an outstretched hand (though even in the dark you swear his face goes red each time). At one point Stan trips up against a fallen rock and you realize his flashlight’s battery is slowly dying.

“Here—“ You hand him yours, curling his fingers around it as you take his fading one. “You can use mine. Just don’t lose me in the back, alright?”

Stan’s quiet for a good moment, staring at your illuminated face in the dark, and an unfamiliar softness takes over his features as he pats your hand, suddenly avoiding your eye.

“I’ll look after ya,” he says, and you know even in the dark you’ve got matching bashful smiles. Good ol’ Stan. Though the next time he reaches a hand out to help you down, yours shakes as it slides between his fingers.

After ten minutes or so of near silent walking, accompanied by Fiddleford’s quiet humming, Ford stops everyone, clicking his flashlight off and on again. You’re looking at your feet to watch your steps and bump into Stan’s back, instinctively grabbing his arm and woah has he always been so… _toned_ under those t-shirts?

“I heard something rattling,” Ford hisses, holding an arm up and shining the flashlight on the floor of the cave. Something blue glitters in the light but almost as soon as you see it, it’s gone— and you feel something slither across your feet.

Ford turns his flashlight beam to the floor and you catch more sparkles pass down into the depths of the cave— green, purple, a scarlet red, even more— and the four of you stand still, transfixed, as the procession of Gem Snakes head down and around various stalagmites. You can’t help but whisper a “wow” when Stan’s flashlight catches an iridescent yellow snake slide between Fiddleford’s legs to follow the others, and Stan murmurs a “yeah, no kiddin’” before he realizes—

“Hey. You’re, uh… Still holdin’ my arm.”

Oh, right. You let go and give a high-pitched, _very fake_ laugh before saying “oops” like you _totally_ forgot. Through his flashlight’s light you see him arch a brow but shrug, turning to press forward as Ford and Fiddleford head after the hoard of Gem Snakes. You go to follow but Stan’s a step or two ahead— and your flashlight’s light flickers when you smack it, but is ultimately, rather useless.

The three men ahead of you don’t turn back— they think you’re right behind— and you go to follow, but something holds your foot down as you go to lift it. A _heavy_ something.

You slap the flashlight again, pointing it down at your foot, and somehow the light springs back to life, bright and blinding. It lands on the outline of a donut-shape wrapped around your ankle, glittering and shiny and black, with a very angry-looking snake head attached to it.

If you remember rightly from Ford’s explanation earlier, the fact that you’re shining a _white_ light into this _black_ Gem Snake’s face means you’re in trouble. Like, deep trouble.

While you know who could give a more educated assistance to this situation… It’s instinctual as to whose name you call first.

“Stan—!”

You don’t see him turn at your cry in the dark, but you hear him shout back to you in a panic. Shuffling feet come closer and louder as all three of them rush to your aid, but the Gem Snake constricts around your ankle and rather unfairly sinks its fangs into your ankle. It’s _painful_ (as 99% of snake bites tend to be) and your scream dies in your throat—

“Shit, shit, they're—“  
“They’ve got fast-acting poison when provoked, someone catch—“  
And then you’re pulled into the black, glittering scales that overtake your vision as the snake’s venom makes you fall unconscious.

— — — — —

You come back to life in waves of waking, slowly gathering your strength and senses as the sunlight just out of your periphery dies. It’s quiet, for the most part; you hear rustling and a sigh, one time, but apart from that, you’re alone as you blink in and out of consciousness.

Someone’s hand curls around yours as you start to properly rise, but you can’t quite make it all the way just yet. You count the fingers: five, ruling out Ford. Fiddleford’s hands are relatively small, and this hand is _not_ , so—

“Mmh… Stan?”

The hand holding yours jolts and you hear the creak of chair legs scooting closer to your ear. Stan squeezes your fingers tight.

“Are you okay? Speak to me, kid.”

Stringing full sentences is a little out of your capability, but you manage to rustle, regaining feeling in your legs. Unfortunately.

“Hurts. Foot…”

“Easy, easy.” Stan gently pushes you back down when you try to sit up, and you open your eyes to find his worried self staring down at you. “The “sparkle snake” bit you—“  
“Gem Snake.”  
“Yeah, that thing. Whatever.” His tone reads indifferent, but in the fading sunset light you see his brow furrow, lower lip jutting out. “Like Poindexter told ya, darker colors meant they’re more vicious when the light gets ‘em, and you just _had_ to find a _black_ one, huh.”

“I didn’t exactly plan it, Stan,” you laugh, but he pulls his hand from yours and sits back in his chair. Stan looks to you, opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it.

“We… _I_ was worried about you.” He doesn’t dare meet your eye. “Soon as I heard you scream, I thought, “they're a goner”. That was it, my best friend just… Gone.”

Uncharacteristically quiet, Stan swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His downcast head turns away from you, but his hands curl into fists at his sides. You stay silent.

“I thought I lost you. I— I don’t know what I’d _do_ , I—”

You sit up, and this time Stan doesn’t stop you— the crack in his voice tells that he’s preoccupied. Adjusting your foot (which is thankfully easing up on the pain front), you reach out to take his hand, and his shoulders slump as his fingers twine between yours.

“I’m not going anywhere, Stan. You’re stuck with me for as long as you’ll have me.”

Stan finally looks at you and fondness fills his face, that tenderness you remember from the mornings at the kitchen table with sleep in your eyes and coffee cups warm between hands. You’d never realized it before, but… maybe that’s why you stayed. Staying with Stan like this just felt _natural_ ; like the two of you were… well, we won’t get into too much sappy stuff. All that’s on your mind right now is that he’s a lot closer than you remember him _ever_ being, especially when you untangle your fingers from his and daringly cup his cheek (he leans into your palm and it feels like he’s been there countless times before, even if his stubble under the heel of your hand reigns unfamiliar).

It’s inevitable that the two of you rush together into a kiss, really. Like you let go of a breath you held for months, shoved away a weight on your shoulders.

Any pain in your foot is immediately forgotten as you’re taken over by the sensation of _oh my god he’s kissing you_. Stan pulls back and you both laugh against each other’s mouths; he stares at you for a long moment, and you twist around on the bed to face him better (kissing sideways is never comfortable, believe you me).

“You have… no idea how _long_ I’ve waited to do that.”

“What?”

Stan kisses you again, sending goosebumps down your arms as he pulls you towards him, stalling until your hand at his cheek slides to the back of his neck— and thunk your foot hits the leg of his chair. The bad foot, anyway. You wince, but Stan knows exactly how to remedy it.

“Can I—?”

You’re not clear on what he means but nod anyway, and find hands beneath your thighs as Stan _picks you up_ , turns around, and sits on the bed with you in his lap. Well. Not quite what you thought would happen today, but here you are— and you’re certainly not complaining. Stan stares up at you as if thoroughly dazzled, even shocked at himself for being so forward.

“How’s your foot doin’?”

You grin and take his jaw in your hands, tilting him up and bending you down to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Better.”

You move back to his mouth and find that unlike your last liplock, this one is… desperate. Needy. Stan grips tight to your hips and you hold onto his shoulders for leverage until hands slip under your shirt, not daring to go higher than the thin line where pants end and skin begins. He wants to take a step further but he stops; he’s waiting for you to tell him it’s alright. What a gentleman.

Instead of speaking you take silent initiative, breaking from Stan and crossing your arms over your torso, peeling your shirt off in one (thankfully graceful) fluid motion, throwing it over your shoulder. You twist around to see where it landed (an _inch_ from the trash can but not inside it) and when you turn back, the man beneath your hips has a very different demeanor. Stan takes a long look up and down your body, his gaze raking furrows across your skin, and you suddenly feel very… exposed.

He sees your shoulders slump forward and arms crossing to cover your middle but he immediately pries them away, shaking his head and threading your fingers between his.

“Ah, no coverin’. Lemme take a look at’cha.” Stan gives you another once-over and your face flushes pink.

“But _Stan_ —“

“Uh-uh—“

He kisses you to stopper any excuses and you melt into him, elbows on his shoulders and fingers in his hair. Stan moves up the curve of your waist to pull you closer, slipping around to your front; you pull away again to see both of his hands nervously hovering above your breasts.

“Let’s even things out first.”

Stan’s quizzical before you tug at the hem of his shirt, and he takes a handful of the scruff of the neck and pulls it off in one fell swoop. As you’d wondered (hoped, dreamed, fantasized, if you will), he’s stocky, well-defined muscle flexed in both arms and broad shoulders that dwarf yours against him. It’s Stan’s turn to go red as you unabashedly stare; it deepens when you take his hands and plant them exactly where he’d wanted to land but was too scared to go.

“There.”

Stan squeezes both, gentle, gauging your reaction; your quiet moan makes him do it again, harder. Your hands wander while his are occupied; nowhere too scandalous, but you may as well feel up your ride before taking him for a spin. Nails drag down his chest and Stan shivers beneath even your lightest touch, and your boldness is rewarded by a less delicate grope on your ass. For a while, it’s just that; touching all over, slow make-outs, the works.

Then Stan bites your bottom lip and tugs, letting go with a _pop_ , and you’re suddenly very aware of how turned on you are.

Not that you’re alone in this, however; you feel Stan’s hardness against your inner thigh and you _oh_ -so casually grind against him, rolling your hips forward and sighing against his neck at the slightest relief of friction. His staggered moan breathes hot air against your shoulder and he bites it, pulling a gasp out of you.

He’s not one to be outdone.

You grind again, and _again_ , and Stan almost snarls into your skin before he picks you up again— with a gratuitous grab of your ass along with, his laugh muffled in your neck when you squeal. Your back hits the bed with a thud and Stan looms over you, broad shoulders casting a shadow over your chest.

“Is this— I shoulda _ammmph—“_

Once you shut him up with your tongue in his mouth Stan steadies himself above you on his forearms; in the meantime, you busy your hands with whipping off that belt of his. You get it unbuckled but by the time you go to his fly Stan stops you, sitting up and holding your wrists.

“Woah, now, wait a sec. You eager or somethin’?” He laughs, but his gaze darts between yours and the window.

“Maybe a little.” You grin up at him and Stan’s expression shifts— his nerves settled, you catch how blown out his pupils are.

“Huh.”

“Huh?”

Instead of a reply you feel the button of your pants pop undone and Stan starts shimmying your jeans down your legs. He looks down at you for a long moment, and instead of trying to fold in on yourself you roll your shoulders back on the bed, meeting his dark stare.

“You have—“

He kisses your cheek.

“the—“

A kiss on your chest, just above your sternum.

“most—“

One soft on your tummy, ticklish and sweet.

“beautiful body.”

“Stan…” Your face heats up and you cover your eyes, giggling nervously. “You’re too sweet.”

“It’s the truth, y’know.”

He rests his chin on your stomach and smiles up at you.

“ _Buuuut_ these gotta go. — If you. Want me to, anyway.”

He hooks a finger under the waistband of your underwear. While it’s cute that he’s still asking for approval…

“Stan, for god’s sake, get me naked already.”

“ _Weee-heh-heell_ then, if you say so—“

It’s not long before your wish is his command, lifting hips to slip underwear off and raising your back off the bed so he can unhook your bra. Stan sits back on his heels after carefully (almost reverently) draping your bra over the back of the chair and with that, you’re fully nude beneath Stan Pines. You think it’s unfair that he’s still got underwear _and_ jeans on. He certainly doesn’t seem to mind.

Instead of another quick-witted line, Stan slowly lowers himself down, pushing your knees apart to settle between your legs. His breath is hot against your inner thigh and he presses a small, soft kiss to the spot— before languidly dragging his tongue across your cunt. You gasp, hands flying to grab at the sheets of the bed as Stan twists and curls around your clit, tongue flicking in that particular way that makes your breathing heavier and his name escapes from your lips in a breathy moan. You swear you _feel_ his smirk as he sucks on you, reveling in how you squirm against the bed.

“Mm, you’re havin’ fun, huh? I guessed you’d be the kind to like your pussy eaten out.”

Stan chuckles, hands holding your hips in place. You take a deep breath before murmuring “oh my god, Stan” from behind your hand— as you remembered Ford and Fiddleford were still downstairs.

“Relax, babe— they went back out as soon as they knew you were gonna be okay.”

The pet-name throws you off-guard— but not in a bad way. Stan smiles at you, fond, cute.

Then it turns devious as he slips a finger inside you.

He holds down the jolt that shoots through you with a hand on your (non-injured) foot, but he doesn’t let up; the now _two_ fingers curl and you don’t hold back your near _whine_ as he moves in and out of your cunt with ease. You’d not realized how wet you were until now. As if he needed his ego stroked even more.

You take his hand and stop him, shushing his concerned questioning with a quirked brow. While you’ve never been the type for dirty talk, you suck in a breath and decide to give it a shot.

“Stan, I… I want you to fuck me. Now. Uh, please.”

Well, you tried. At least it made Stan’s jaw drop a little. (Or a lot.)

While he’s distracted with shock you sit up and undo his fly, tugging at his jeans pointedly before he realizes what you’re up to. He hops off the bed, gets his pants off in record time, and— Well, there’s his dick. You don’t want to say it’s, _ahem,_ bigger than you expected, but… it’s bigger than you expected.

“Got somethin’ to say?”

“Not until I see what you can do with that.”

His eyebrows fly so far up his forehead you’re afraid they’ll pop off. When he sees your bottom lip caught between your teeth, however, his joking façade disappears very quickly.

Stan bends over the edge of the bed to find his jeans and he pulls his wallet out from his back pocket. He sifts around cards and cash to find a small foil wrap— you snort, but at least he’s prepared. There’s a kerfuffle of how to put the damn thing on and Stan goes through a lot of _hey why don’t you do it, just to see **hooooowoah** _your hands feel real different from mine_ before you manage to roll it on— and then… Hm._

You both stare at each other for a beat before Stan stutters out a laugh, then you’re both hopelessly giggling. How on earth did you get into _this_ situation is beyond you both— not that you’re complaining, of course, but it’s a little surreal for the two of you. You have a healing snake bite on your ankle and yet you’re both naked. Wild how life works. 

Stan positions his dick in front of you and— it doesn’t take much, he got you worked up enough that his cock goes in without any awkward shuffling. It’s a bit to get used to; his fingers weren’t as wide, so you take a second to get used to the stretching before you give Stan the signal to, uh, _move_. 

He goes slowly to begin with; you’re both stifling gasps and trying not to be too loud. … Until you remember that Ford and Fiddleford went out a while before, so you wrap your legs around Stan’s hips and pull him down for a kiss that muffles your moan— and that sets the pace from there. 

Stan speeds up, balanced on his forearms, and he nudges your jaw to allow him access to the slope of your neck. The deep-set pain of bruises along your throat tells that Stan’s got a bit of a _thing_ for hickeys; it’ll be something interesting to explain later. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he fucks you but your hands don’t stay still for long, grabbing at hair, arms, cheeks to get some sort of leverage, but you eventually flop both down on the bed and Stan readjusts so he can hold your hands tight in his. He kisses you suddenly, hard, copying your lip-bite from before— yet he groans when your lips wrap around his tongue. You’d have to remember he’s a fan of that. 

His thrusts get faster still and you feel (by some miracle) the cool pads of his fingertips at your clit, rubbing almost as quick as he slams into you, and you know you’re close, so close— 

So when Stan growls _“You’re **mine** ”_ into your ear you come undone without much else on his part. 

Your back arches off the bed and Stan’s hand underneath keeps you up, his mouth at your nipple sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin, and you vaguely hear your voice give out as you moan his name. He’s not too far behind— his hips crash against yours thrice more, deep and fast, before he lets out a staggered breath that sounds like your name and he twitches, gradually softening and flopping down onto the bed at your side. 

“That was—“  
“Amazing? Mind-blowing? Stupefyin’?" 

Stan beats you to the end of your statement and you laugh, turning onto your side to face him. 

“Solidly adequate.” 

His face falls before you lean in and kiss him again, smiling against his lips. 

“I’m kidding, Stan. That was pretty amazing.” 

“I mean, heh, it’s me. Of course.” 

“Sure, sure,” you snort, and Stan snakes an arm around your middle. He kisses the top of your head, pausing there for a beat and pulling you close against him. 

“… I, ah… I was gonna, uh, tell you in a less… well, I didn’t think it’d get to this part so quick, I guess.” Stan barks out a nervous laugh, and you feel his arm stiffen at your waist. 

“I mean, neither did I— but I’m glad it did,” you reply, nuzzling his chest. “And if you were wondering… I feel the same way.”  
“You— I, uh, really?” 

Foregoing a reply, you scoot up on the bed and kiss him, both hands on either side of his face. 

_“ _Really_ really.”_

Stan’s grinning like you just gave him a million bucks and his giddy bliss is contagious— you start giggling as he peppers your face with kisses, moving from cheek to cheek, to forehead, to chin, to you. 


	2. and all that jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow looky what we have here. MORE stan content??  
> (afab reader, they/them pronouns)

Your ankle heals quite nicely, by the way. Up and walking within a week after the snake bite, with only a slight bruising to show for it. Ford almost wishes the snake left you with more of an impressive injury, but when you threaten to kick him with your good foot he decides he’s glad you’re better.

It’s early morning when you come downstairs to an empty kitchen, clicking the kettle on and leaning against the countertop with a yawn. The only sound in the house is the slow whistle of the steam escaping the spout and boiling water bubbling; soothing, in comparison to yesterday morning when you awoke to an ominous _ka-boom_ from the basement. 

Stan pads into the kitchen and stretches his arms overhead, nearly hitting the lamp hanging atop the dining table with the movement. He blinks at you, realizes who accompanies him in the room, and his face immediately lights up in a sleepy smirk.

“G’mornin’.”

He stands in front of you and winds his arms around your waist, peppering your cheeks with kisses until you giggle, gently shoving him back a step. He’s affectionate today, you tease, your hands on his chest moving to his shoulders.

“You make it hard not to be, y’know.” Stan’s grin goes soft, fingers sliding into your messy hair. “Your bedhead is the damned cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He twists a lock of hair around his finger and pulls teasingly, using it to bring you forward, and when he kisses you your arms wind around his neck. It’s warm through the window from the rising sun, the kettle’s low whistle climbing in pitch as your sweet good morning lip-lock turns greedy. In your defense, you’ve not eaten breakfast yet.

“Sorry t’break up the festivities, y’all, but Ford’s been callin’ for ya for the past five minutes.”

Fiddleford leans against the doorway and snickers as you push Stan away, thoroughly mortified; he stumbles backwards into one of the dining chairs, which protests the movement with an awkward _squeak._

“Some warnin’ would’a been nice, Fidds,” Stan grumbles, pushing the chair back into the table. “Guess duty calls, huh?”

You laugh, fixing your drink and turning to Fiddleford, asking what Ford needs. _He’s_ the assistant around here, after all— you’re the houseguest. Who’s not really a houseguest after several months of staying here, if you’re frank.

“Oh, we’re runnin’ analyses on some of the samples we got yesterday,” he answers. “He wanted another pair’a eyes on the situation, since you came with us. I’ll meet’cha down there.”

As soon as Fiddleford leaves and starts back downstairs, Stan hugs you from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. He turns his head so his lips move against your neck as he mumbles “Can’t you stay for a couple more minutes?”

You wish you could, you tell him, an arm around his middle… But duty calls, like he said. Stan detangles and waves you off as you follow after Fiddleford, waiting until you’re out of earshot to sigh impatiently.

— — — — — 

Without a meddling research partner in sight, Stan volunteers to come with you and Ford to explore a “new” chasm he found in the woods.

“Since Fiddlesticks is in town with his lady friend, I can be your extra set of hands.” Stan wiggles his fingers, making you laugh. “Figured it’s the least I can do after last week’s adventure went up shit creek.”

 _"Language,_ Stanley.” Ford tries to sound stern, but his small smile gives him away in an instant. “We’re going to another cave today, but not that one. Different cave, different venture.”

“Man, and I was hopin’ for more sparkly snakes,” Stan says, and Ford clearly misses the sarcasm in his tone as he starts explaining the myth of a hidden treasure trove within the cave, somewhere full of golden nuggets—

“Of gold? Are we gonna be rich, Sixer?”

“Hm? Oh, no. Golden nuggets… _of knowledge.”_

Stan scoffs, but he still trails after as you leave the house behind. Ford leads the pack, calling back to warn of fallen logs and puddles, but after fifteen minutes or so he leaves you in the dust. Stan squints to try and find him amongst the trees, to no avail; he turns on you with a devious smirk.

“So… You. Me. Alone in the woods. Nothin’ but mosquitoes and mud to bust us.”

You ask what he’s getting at and cross your arms. He opens his mouth to say something, but the crack of thunder overhead butts into the conversation first. Stan looks between you and the sky and grabs your hand, breaking into a run as the heavens open above. You catch a glimpse of the mouth of a cave at your right and pull him into it, stumbling into the dry safety as the rain comes down in sheets outside. Stan sticks his arm out and gets it suitably soaked before turning to you to say “Looks like it’s comin’ down hard. Nice job finding this place though! We can wait out the weather in here.”

You nod, rubbing your upper arms. It’s cliché and you know it, but you can’t help it— you tell Stan that you’re cold. He quirks a brow, catches on to your feigned innocence, and smirks.

“Cold, eh? Well, if we’re stuck here for a while… Let me help ya out.”

Stan leads you backwards until your back hits the cave wall, a soft thud echoed by a rustle of clothes when he sneaks an arm around your waist. The only warning you get is his low chuckle before he kisses you, his hold on you tightening when you clutch to his shirt, wet and sticking to his skin. You lick along his bottom lip, then bite down, gently giving it a tug before letting it go— Stan’s noise of surprise (and a little bit of something else) rumbles under your palms on his chest, which you slide up to card fingers through his hair, pressing you together from chest to knee. He’s surprised by your sudden lead, judging by how when his hand slips under your shirt it shakes. Feeling emboldened, you wind a leg around his and test the waters, hitching it over his hip and pulling him closer still. You’re fairly certain that’s not a gun in his pocket that you grind down on.

Stan jumps but presses against you, his hand slapping against the cave wall with a… click? No, that’s not right. Why did it click—

The wall decides to swing to the left and you and Stan fumble, falling to the floor in a heap as the wall-that’s-actually-a-door opens up, bathing the cave in a faint amber light. Stan rubs his head and starts to mutter “What the f—”

“Uck, it’s so muddy outsi—! Oh! Oh, you found it! Wow, it’s even more remarkable than I expected!”

A wild Ford appears behind you, leaping over your tangled legs into the hidden room, bounding around the piles of yellowed papers and folders like an overexcited puppy.  
“Ford? Where the hell’d you come from?”

You scoot away from Stan and get to your feet, asking Ford what this place is as you lend Stan a hand up.

“Why, it’s the cave we came looking for! I didn’t realize how close to the house it was, how remarkable. And these research documents...! They’ll be such a help to our cause! Come over here, would you both? I’ll need another two pairs of hands to carry these back home.”

You slip through the wall/door to grab a stack of papers, leaving Stan in the main cave hollow with his hair mussed, his moment ruined, and his self in need of a cold shower.

— — — — — 

It’s another day, another “well Fiddleford and I are going to find the Mothman but you can stay home if you’d like”. After yesterday’s, er… _Adventure,_ you decide to kick your feet up at the house, instead. Stan’s around, but you’re not sure where. He certainly came home grumbly yesterday with two stacks of research papers under his arms, and you know exactly why, but it’s so fun to mess with him. You let him stew, like a slow-cooked meal on low heat for eight hours, until you find the perfect moment to make him boil over.

He finds you strewn across the couch with a book in hand, using the fading sun as your lamp and completely oblivious to him staring in the doorway. For one, sappy moment, he watches you; how the light hits your face, shines through your hair, how your fingers bend and flip the page with a strange amount of grace. He never thought he’d find _page-turning_ something to see, but with you, he’ll watch paint dry. 

The sweetness of his thoughts abruptly stops when you stretch your arms over your head and stretch, back arching off the sofa cushions and a soft sigh leaving your mouth that makes him think _screw it, if Ford and Fidds come home now they’ll have to deal with it._

He strides over and snatches the book from you, finding a sheet of looseleaf paper to use as a bookmark (the gentleman) before he props a knee between your legs, a hand on the arm of the sofa, and when he leans down you meet him halfway. He seems to want to make up for yesterday’s lost time— within seconds he’s moved from your lips to your neck, leaving kisses that turn from soft to not-so soft when he bites down, making you gasp aloud. Stan only takes that as an invitation to cause more _noises_ to escape you as he gets to work leaving a mark (or three) near where your pulse beats rapid-fire. It’s embarrassing how quickly he gets such a reaction from you; as your fingers curl into his shirt you’re more than aware of how lewd you must sound to the unknowing ear. Though Ford and Fiddleford _are_ out at the moment, so…

“Be as loud as you want. Nobody’s here to catch us.”

Stan’s murmur breathes hot on your throat as he ruts against you, moving to catch your lips in his as your mouth opens in a quiet moan. Even if the other two occupants of the house aren’t around, it’s still strange to have the freedom to be— Oh, whatever Stan does with his tongue certainly makes you forget that thought. As well as the sudden jostle of keys from the other side of the front door.

Stan, thankfully, hears it too and leaps off of you as the door opens, revealing a pair of sweaty scientists and no Mothman in sight.

“Couldn’t find the marker towards the cave,” Ford sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “I swore I found it… last time… Are you two alright?”

To be fair, you probably look like quite the sight: Stan’s shirt is rumpled and riding up his front, his hair tousled, and you _know_ there’s a bruise or three on your neck that you try and cover with your hand, pretending to idly scratch an itch. You tell Ford that you’re fine, that you both fell asleep by accident.

“Were you _on top_ of each other?”

Maybe. Stan snickers and loops an arm around your shoulders. “We sure were. You got a problem with it?”

Ford’s brows raise up almost into his hair, but he merely hangs up his lab-coat and shakes his head. “No, no. What you two do when you’re not working is certainly none of _my_ business.”

“It is when you catch them mackin’ on each other in the kitchen,” Fiddleford mutters, making all of your faces flush pink. “But _that’s_ none’a my business.”

Stan rolls his eyes at you, making his hand into a mouth that “blah blah blah”’s.

“Regardless— Stanley.” Ford arches a brow at you both, but Stan doesn’t bat an eye.

“Yes, dear brother?”

“Just don’t squash our houseguest if you two are going to be… doing things.”

Stan scoffs as Ford and Fiddleford head downstairs to the basement. “Low blow, Sixer. Low blow.”

— — — — — 

Stan left after that. He had “business in town”, apparently, so he disappeared in his car ten minutes after Ford and Fiddleford came back. You’d be worried, but he did that a few days ago and came back smelling of cigar smoke and totally fine, so. It’s whatever.

That was hours ago; your clock blares 3:31am at you in neon green, the secondary light source in your bedroom aside from the moon through your window. You stretch and twist from side to side, stifling a yawn into your arm. At some point after dinner you passed out, stuffed full of food and exhausted from the past few days’ manic work, but the sun was still up when you fell asleep. Looks like you’ll be paying for it now.

You’re still wearing your outfit from the day before, you realize, looking down at what definitely isn’t pajamas. That’s probably why you woke up with such a crick in your neck. Sitting up in bed, you get to your feet and start to get undressed to put more comfortable clothes on, figuring better late than never, right?

Your door’s open. You didn’t notice until you heard a quiet gasp. Stan stands in the doorway, looking just as surprised as you do since you’re mid-shirt take-off and holding it above you, the collar still sliding over your head.

You’re about to say his name but Stan rushes forward, steals your shirt, and tosses it over your shoulder. He grabs you under your arms and _lifts_ you until you have to wrap your legs around him to keep from falling. Stan looks uncharacteristically serious when he stares at you: pupils blown wide in the dark, face flushed, mouth set in a fine line. If you hadn’t seen this face before, you wouldn’t know it’s definitely not serious— it’s desperate.

It’s a face reserved solely for you.

He lurches forward and kisses you hard, fingertips pressing into your thighs, and you kiss back with double the fervor. Fingers tangle in his hair and you put your elbows on his shoulders, pushing your chests together and laughing into his mouth when his grip on you tightens. Stan turns and sits on the bed with you sitting on his lap and his hands move up the backs of your legs, giving your ass a passing squeeze before wrapping his arms around your middle, roving over the exposed skin like he’s never seen it before. You tear away from him to catch your breath and ask what’s gotten into him— doesn’t he know what time it is? Stan laughs.

“Two days of gettin’ interrupted every time I so much as touched you had me, uh, riled up.”

He can say that again. You cup his jaw in your hand and press a kiss to his forehead, more as you trail down from temple to cheek to mouth, and you go a bit slower this time around. More attentive. Stan traces a line along your spine, avoiding the stripe of your bra across your back until you feel a strap fall off your shoulder. He pulls back again to look at you; the sudden attention makes you flush under his eye. You ask him what he’s looking at.

“Oh, nothin’... just the most beautiful sight I've ever seen, sitting on my lap with no shirt on.” His dopey smile shifts to teasing as he ducks under your chin and dots kisses along your neck, ignoring your squeal of his name and your giggles, because it’s damn ticklish and he knows it. Bastard. 

You say something about how he flatters you too much, murmured into his ear as you drape your arms over his shoulders, and Stan looks up with a raised brow. 

“Ain’t flattery if it’s the truth, y’know.”

He’s not _allowed_ to say those sorts of things with a straight face, you protest, burrowing into his chest with a huff. You feel rather than hear Stan’s chuckle as he runs his fingers through your hair. The two of you stare at each other for a second, enamored with the person looking back, and the moment softens. Until you reach down and start pulling Stan’s shirt over his head, since you feel exposed and a bit cold. Stan laughs, grabbing the scruff of the neck of his shirt and tugging it off in one fluid motion, and as soon as he throws it behind him, it’s _your_ turn to leave a mark or two on his neck. He almost immediately _melts_ when you start sucking a bruise onto his skin, and you feel his hands move to your hips to grab on for dear life. It’s been a week since you two really got handsy, but you remember his weak spots; you gently pull on his hair and smile against his collarbone when he lets out a shuddery breath.

“Quit _teasin’_ me, I’ve waited forever for this—”

He’s waited two days, you counter, and he can wait a few minutes more. You plant both hands on his shoulders to push him down onto your bed, and Stan more than willingly goes down until his head hits the mattress. Your nails lightly drag down over his chest, you feel his shiver under your touch.

“What are you doing?” He whispers, pulling up to rest on his forearms and watching you slide off his lap. You kneel in front of his legs and gently push his knees apart. 

You’re taking your time, you tell him, as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. 

Stan lifts off the bed to let you shimmy his pants off and you’re greeted by a tall tent in the front of his boxers when you turn back to face him. You palm at him through the fabric and Stan flops onto his back the second you touch him, covering his eyes with his arm, his other hand clutching at the sheets. If that’s enough to make him moan… maybe he _has_ been waiting forever for this. Or keeping his hands to himself until you got yours on him instead. 

Stretching the elastic to its limits, you pull Stan’s boxers up and over him until they dangle from his left foot (he doesn’t seem fazed and leaves them there, too occupied to care). You call his name in a sing-song voice, waiting until he moves his arm and sits up to look at you to lick a long strip from the base to the tip of his cock. He doesn’t make any sort of decipherable noise, but more of a stunned gurgle before you take it into your mouth, going as far down as you can before pulling back up again, circling your tongue around the tip. And then you kiss it, because why not. Stan’s red in the face and he closes his eyes, mumbling something unintelligible— you ask what he said, teasing in tone, but don’t wait for a reply before you lick your lips and get back to work. He starts on the first part of your name but loses track mid-way, opting instead to slide his hand into your hair; you feel when he grips tighter or pulls at certain movements, when you add your hand to the party and start jerking him off as you suck, and keep at it until you’re fairly certain he’s ripped all your hair out. Nope, you still got it. Phew.

You come up for air but your mouth isn’t unoccupied for long. Stan sits up and pulls you to his mouth in a sudden, frantic way that makes your noses knock together. (It didn’t hurt, though.) You laugh against his lips and cup his face in your hands, letting the moment turn tender, until you push him back down onto the bed. He looks both dazzled and puzzled. 

“This doesn’t seem fair, y'know.” 

You ask him to elaborate, standing above him with palms flat against his chest.

“I’m butt naked and _you_ still have all your clothes on.”

Hm, he has a point: Stan caught you when you were pulling your shirt off. You’re still wearing pants, bra, and underwear, while he sports nothing but a dark blush that goes all the way down to his shoulders. His chest heaves under your hands and he watches you with wide eyes, tongue darting out to lick his lips. With a sudden rush of bravery, you stand up fully and start stripping.

Stan pinches his arm, waits, then sits back and watches you instead. “Somebody’s eager.”

Says the man with an obvious declaration of his interest in the situation. You nod down at said “declaration” and Stan snorts, lying flat on the bed, but he looks down his nose at you as you slide your underwear down your legs. Give him the benefit of the doubt— he’s only seen you naked once before, so it’s still (and probably always will be) a novelty to him.

You climb up and kneel over him, balancing on one hand near his shoulder as you line his dick up and lower yourself down onto it. He moans, low from the back of his throat, where you bite your lip to hold back the quiet gasp as you get used to the feeling; you bottom out, sigh out a breath you didn’t realize you held. Stan relaxes underneath you, eyelids fluttering shut. And then you move.

Lifting yourself up agonizingly slowly, you keep your attention on his face as you pull yourself up and almost off him entirely, before you sink back onto him, sucking a breath between your teeth from the friction. Stan holds your hips, tries to move them in a silent plea to go faster, but you put a hand on his chest to stop him in his tracks. You repeat the movement, twice, three times— lifting yourself up until you nearly come off his cock, but then letting yourself drop back down onto him. Slow. Terribly teasing, you know, but it’s so fun to watch his face turn several shades of red in the span of a few minutes.

But you have your limits.

You press your chest against Stan’s and hold your head above his for a second, nose-to-nose, and you kiss him; he catches on quick, thankfully, and shifts on the bed to accommodate. He takes the reins from there— being on top is a thigh workout and a half— and he barely pulls out before slamming back into you, and eventually the kissing turns into desperate moaning against his neck when he bites down on your shoulder. One of his hands finds an in between your bodies and poking around (awkward, but he’s trying, at least) until he finds your clit, twisting his arm to rub the pads of his fingertips against it, and when you whimper in his ear he presses a surprisingly gentle kiss to your collarbone. Sentimental boy. That train of thought drops off a cliff when you hear him swear under his breath and speed up his thrusts. 

You’re close; you can tell he is too, by how irregular and messy his movements get, the obscene sound of your skin slapping against his getting quicker and louder as he loses control. He moves his hand from your clit and you take over, knowing exactly how to sort yourself out as you sit up to get a better angle. Stan looks up and his face reads like he just saw a damn angel or something— which is something close to what he pants out as he reaches up and shakily holds onto your waist, moving you with him until you have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from waking up the entire house. That thrill of the potential of getting caught plus touching yourself plus Stan’s sudden groan of your name makes you straighten up and your head tilt back, muffling your noises against your hand as you come. You pull off and over Stan and all but collapse on the bed as he finishes himself off, back arching and mouth open in a silent moan. The two of you lie down and catch your breath in silence.

“You hungry?”

It takes you a minute to turn your head. Stan, however, looks up at the ceiling as if nothing happened. What.

“I asked if you’re hungry,” Stan repeats, turning and giving you a goofy smile. “I usually am after, uh. This.”

You stare at him in incredulous shock. The two of you just had sex at four in the morning and he’s asking if you’re _hungry?_ And you’re _surprised_ by this?

After the initial dubiousness subsides you start laughing, rolling onto your side and kissing him, much to his surprise. Stan laughs with you and holds your head in his hands, meeting your eyes with such a softness that your giggles peter out, both of you stunned into silence by the person next to you. 

“… You never answered my question, though.”

You snort and nod at him because _yes,_ if you’re being honest, you are pretty hungry. Stan grins and presses his lips to your forehead, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head.

“Sweet. Well, uh, lemme clean up… this. And we can go find some grub!”

He stands up and roots around the room for a box of tissues, and as you sit up on the bed, you come to a rather untimely realization as you watch your best-friend-turned-housemate-turned-lover wander around your bedroom naked. You could very easily fall in love with this man and it wouldn’t take much doing on his behalf whatsoever.

Stan pulls his boxers and jeans back on and jokingly drapes your pajamas over your head. “You comin’? As much as I’d _love_ for you to come downstairs with no clothes on, I dunno if Sixer or Fiddleford would be okay with it.”

Best not to find out, you decide, and quickly pull your pajamas on before following Stan downstairs to the kitchen, where he _very quietly_ makes the two of you “a feast fit for royalty” by the light of the moon, doing everything on tip-toe to keep from waking the other occupants of the house. You sit down at the kitchen table and watch, stifling giggles into your palms.

Cereal and toaster waffles have never tasted so good in your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen: i love chicago  
> and neither of the chapters fit for my favorite song which is oh yes oh yes oh yes they both oh yes they both oh yes they both reached for the gun the gun the gun the gun oh yes they both reached for the gun FOR THE GUN


End file.
